


Diverted Attention

by Wizard95



Series: A Scot In Training [4]
Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: F/M, M/M, RAF - Freeform, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 06:12:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18911173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wizard95/pseuds/Wizard95
Summary: Jack is falling behind on the lessons, so he spends an afternoon in the library trying to learn through a breakdown that doesn't quite happen. He does learn something else, however, as something else happens.





	Diverted Attention

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! It's been so long! I've had this chapter kind of complete for some time now but I was never totally convinced by it... I am now... sorta. I figured it was time to post it. So hope you enjoy it!

Collins doesn't get a wink of sleep. He gets up and paces around, doodles on a couple of lose sheets of paper, picks up Michael's pillow from the floor three times in an hour. He tries reading up on the mechanics of an aircraft engine, brushing up on the mathematics to no avail: he can't concentrate for longer than a miserable minute, the pain in his nose too distracting.  He's sprawled on the floor, opened books and paper all around him, hair a mess, probable dark circles under his eyes, and an unflinching expression of misery.

 

That's how the nurse finds him at first daylight, when she gently opens the door of the dormitory, looking quite dashing like it's not 6 in the morning. It's almost insulting. Needless to say, she's a sight for sore eyes. With a disbelieving giggle, a completely unnecessary apology for her absence and a praise to whomever put his nose back in place ( _Commander Farrier, ma'am_ ) nurse Jones hands him two painkillers which he downs with a couple of gulps of water from the closest tap to the door in the closest bathroom facilities (that's two corridors, a ridiculous morning sprint and a set of stairs away.)

 

He gets forty minutes of sleep that rather feel like four before Mike is shaking him awake.

 

 "Sun's out, mate"

 

 "I _know_..." he groans, a long-suffering groan that he carries with him for the rest of the day and lets out every once in a while.  
  
    
He drags his feet to the dining room and eats a piece of bread with jam that's shoved on his face by Marley after he claims to not be hungry. He gets some genuinely sympathetic looks and a few words of encouragement here and there too.

 

"Purple nose or not, you still look scottishly-dashing!"

 

"Is that a word?"

 

"Hey, at least you got the fags, Jackie!"

 

Lenny walks by and stops, grunts, clears his throat and manages a surprisingly honest-sounding "does it hurt much?" along with an awkward wave to his own nose. And Jack doesn't feel particularly kind today, so he doesn't look up and simply answers with a cold "yes" that has Lenny strutting away almost immediately.

 

When he sits down on his usual place, he thinks he sees the Air Mashal staring disapprovingly in his direction but he really doesn't care much for it. He is too sleep-deprived to pay it any mind. _Yes_ , he's reckless. _Yes_ , he's failing on most of the subjects as if he'd been born for it. He probably deserves the looks of disappointment. The reality is he's far behind on the lessons (that is, he's not sure he's fit to pass the upcoming tests) which is simply an inconceivable notion: if he doesn't understand the theory, he can't apply it in practice. If he can't apply it in practice, there'll be no place for him in the RAF.

 

In short, he can't afford to miss a class just because he is sleepy, he's finding it hard enough to grasp the concepts as it is. It would ultimately mean being kicked out. Kicked out from the training programme, from his house, most likely. He would have to enlist. So he doesn't miss the class. Well, technically he doesn't.

 

He stays in his place as the Air Marshal begins the monologue in that dreadful monotonous voice and he dozes off. He blames it on the heavy painkillers, late after, when he opens his eyes to an empty classroom, and sits straight up in a motion that sends waves of pain to his head. With a sore neck and a dry throat, he stumbles out of the room into an equally-empty corridor.

 

He slept through the Air Marshal's lesson. That's just fantastic. The icing of the bloody cake.

 

"Why didn't ye wake me up?!"

 

"Jackie!"

 

He slaps the fork off Marley's hand, and it lands on the table with a _clank_.

 

"Don't fuckin' call me that"  
  
   
"Blimey, someone's moody..." Marley mumbles under his breath.

 

"He said to let you sleep, Jack. So we let you sleep" Michael chimes in, matter-of-factly, like it's really no big deal.

 

"Well don' fuckin' let me sleep again" he barks. "Shite, I'll be home by the end of the month"

 

He runs his hands on his hair exasperately. He will. They'll dismiss him.

 

"What are you on about?" Marley asks, with his cheerful voice, too cheerful for Jack's liking, and he feels the impulse to knock the fork off his hand again.

 

"I'm fuckin' done" he shrugs, and lets out a laugh, for lack of anything else to do. This prompts Michael to put down his glass of water and lean in on the table in an unnervingly-calm manner.

 

"You're hardly being kicked out for sleeping in class, Jack, we're in the middle of a war, they need all the men they can get"

 

And somehow, Jack thinks, that's the worst possible intent at pep-talk he could've got.

 

"Precisely" he nods. "I'm not cut out to be a pilot"

 

"But we haven't even begun technical training yet" Marley adds.

 

Jack lets out another one of his groans then.

 

"I think those pills are making you a bit anxious, mate" Mike frowns in his direction.

 

Jack decides to keep his thoughts to himself then, and doesn't look in their direction again as he walks away. He snatches an apple on his way out of the room and spends the rest of the early afternoon confined in the library, sat on a table next to a window that overlooks the backyard. Away from prying eyes.

 

"To calculate the amount of fuel left, apply both formulas separately and work out a balance between the time of take off, estimated time of flight, height and speed" he reads the sentence for the third time, and makes a face at the useless illustrations on the page. "To calculate the fuel you have left. Alright... but ye hav' to know how much fuel you had at the beginnin' too"

 

He's sure he saw some sample exercises, somewhere... Perhaps this is not the right book.

 

"Which formula was which again?" He skims through his own notes, fails to find the information and spends two minutes reading the summary at the end of the book to find the specific equation.

 

He doesn't.

 

Find it, that is.

 

"Coordenates... coordenates... fuck's sake... _there's nothing about fuckin' coordenates in'ere_ " he mumbles under his breath. There's no-one here to hear him raging, but there's just something about a library... he doesn't quite dare raise his voice.

 

That, and he's trying really hard not to lose his nerve.

  
There's no need for this kind of problem-solving unless your gauge breaks. If you're being shot at then that's fucking it for you, you won't be fucking conscious to check your fucking fuel! And why can't they just build in another smaller, spare indicator anyway? This is useless. They're not going to defeat the nazis by memorizing numbers and learning equations.

 

He runs his hands over his eyes and lets out a tired sigh.  
  
  
It's foggy outside, and looks later than 3pm, but he stumbles out of his chair to open the window anyway. The cold air on his face is heavenly. Not so much on his body, however, so he leaves the window slightly ajar and sits back down after a minute.

 

Practical training begins next week.

 

He _needs_ to get this. H _e has to.  
  
  
_

He startles at the door being slammed close, a noise that pierces through the otherwise quiet room.

 

Jack's hands immediatedly go to his face to brush on his watery eyes and he closes the book in a quick and panicked motion.

 

Maybe Mike was right, maybe those pills are making him a bit edgy.

 

He stands there, waiting for someone to come round the corner of the tall book-shelf and catch him in-fragante. Puffy and red eyes giving him away. A letter of dismissal on some superior's hand, or a classmate telling him his presence is needed at the Air Marshal's office.

 

A whole ten seconds go by, however, and that doesn't happen. What _does happen_ is a lot of noise on one of the _other_ tables, and he knows this because he hears the distinct sound of one of the lamps being knocked off its place and shattering on the floor. A distressed voice follows the sound and Collins takes a step closer to the corridor, because that is, without doubt, Commander Farrier's voice.

 

"Oh - fuck!" He gasps. Collins has never heard him swear. Not once. Not even a hint of a swearword, a euphemism. Nothing.

 

Concern washes over him almost immediately and he takes another step forward without noticing he's doing so, only to be pinned to the floor by another voice.

  
A female voice.

  
  
A female _groan_ , to be precise.

 

He halts and takes a deep and silent breath in, because there's no mistaking what's happening _now._ And _shit_ , fucking hell, he can't leave without being seen, and he can't fucking _stay_!

 

"Oh!"

 

Is that nurse Jones?

 

_Could be any one, really.  
  
  
_

"Oh my god" she whines.

 

That's nurse Jones.

 

Collins makes a face and retrieves further into his table in the corner.

 

"Are you sure ther-"

 

" _Yes_ " Comes Farrier's voice, deep and resolute.

 

"Shouldn't we check-"

 

And she's cut off again, by Farrier kissing her somewhere, if those wet sounds are anything to go by. Maybe her neck, maybe he's got her up on the table, his hands under her dress already, caressing the inner part of her legs, maybe he's _kissing_ her there.

 

Jack takes another deep breath in the moment the Commander lets out a moan. And another deep breath in, and another, and another. He's panting.

 

"Thomas..." she says out of breath herself, a half-whisper, half-plead.

 

_Thomas?  
_

 

_Thomas Farrier?  
_

 

One of them steps over the shattered glass, Collins wipes his sweaty hands down on his trousers and sits back down on the chair, thoughts raging, confused, fucking aroused. He has no way of seeing them, but they really leave little room for imagination. The table rocks, a couple of books land on the floor with boring sounds, and the incessant moaning, not too loud yet loud enough to be heard throughout the whole library.

 

Collins' throat is dry, and with every strangled "Thomas" that comes out of her lips, Farrier lets out an equally-strangled groan that only adds to Jack's discomfort.  
  
   
God, he should've done something, dropped a book, closed the window, _anything._ Let them know the place wasn't empty.

 

_Too late now. Stay fuckin' put.  
  
_

His hands close around the chair's arm-rest when he hears Farrier ask her to open her legs with a raspy voice.

 

He's trembling. It's ridiculous.

 

She lets out just one loud cry before Farrier quicky puts a hand over her mouth, no doubt. Jack can still hear her muffled voice. And Thomas...

 

Thomas seems to have a bit more of control over what comes out of his mouth.

 

It's not longer until the noises stop and are replaced by just their agitated breaths. Jack's knuckles have turned white, and he isn't able to calm down and stop his heart from loudly pounding against his ribcage until he hears the door open and close again.

 

Even then, he waits a good five minutes before making a move, endures the aching pain in his lower stomach.

 

It's almost painful when he slips a hand under his pants and jerks off. He's already over-sensitive, it takes but a shameful thirty seconds. Maybe less, and he cleans his hand with a sheet of paper and puts all his belongings back in the bag, formulas and exercises forgotten, sloppily makes his way out of the library ten minutes later, feeling dirty and out of place. Something akin to guilt in the back of his mind.

 

He needs a drink.

 

And a smoke.

 

  
He drops his bag on his bed soon as he steps in the bedroom, snatches the unopened pack of fags and leaves for the bathrooms with a change of clothes in hand. And in there, under the constant shower of cold water, he stays a good ten minutes trying to clear his head. He doesn't quite succeed, but the cold at least helps the swollen nose and prevents his imaginative mind from wandering into the memories of Farrier's classes. Him standing in the front of the class, straight, serious, knowledgeable. Straight, very straight.  
  
  
Or Farrier pressing against him trying to put his nose back in place, telling him to open his legs, just like he told nurse Jones to open hers before he fucked her on top of a table.  
  
  
He closes the tap.  
  
  
So Farrier _is_ straight. Not that Collins had been expecting it to be otherwise. He's straight and he fucks one of the nurses.  
  
  
"Which is none of your concern" he tells himself, as he buttons up his shirt and slips into his boots. He's shivering but he doesn't have another erection, which is what he was going for, so that's alright.  
  
  
When he was sixteen his mother made him promise he wouldn't take to smoking, after her older brother, uncle Finlay, died of some sort of throat affliction, no doubt encouraged by his constant intake of nicotine. Jack can't say he's kept his word, but he wouldn't call himself a smoker, either. And he thinks his mother should give him some credit for that, at least. Harder to fight the addiction once you've tried it, he reckons.  
  
  
It's in moments like these, when he can't fight down the anxiety, that he sometimes indulges in it. He's only lucky they gave them to him: his broken nose had served a purpose. With the tests looming over him and now his unability to keep Thomas Farrier, Wing Commander out of his head, a smoke would come in heavenly.  
  
  
There's only so much the cold shower can help with, after all.  
  
  
Everyone's in the dining room, he hears the ruckus on his way past it and only rushes away for the main door, lest Marley poke his head outside looking for him and condemn him to an afternoon of table tennis. Or what's left of the afternoon, anyway.  
  
  
The fog is thick, floating over the green yard that extends to the front, it isn't longer till sunset but he still makes his way down the stairs and sits there, cigarrette in hand, hair still wet.  
  
  
He takes deep drags in and closes his eyes, tries to focus on the feeling of the smoke down his throat and then out of his mouth, forming shapes in the air. It's not until the third fag that he starts feeling rather calm, but as it is known, he is an unlucky fellow, and just when he feels he's shut down the incessant pining for the Commander and the nagging knowledge that the final theoretical tests are due in two days, someone opens the door behind him, so abruptly that he turns around startled like a deer caught in the headlights.  
  
  
The Air Marshal makes his way down the stairs with steady speed, mumbling curses under his breath, something about Churchill and 'fucking jerrys', something about not enough equipment and 'sending babies to their deaths', and if that doesn't perturb Collins' recently found inner calm, then nothing else does.  
  
  
"Sir, the car will be here in a min-"  
  
  
"I will get the fucking car! Bring me my fucking coat"  
  
  
"Yes sir, wouldn't it be more sensible to wait till morning comes, sir?"  
  
  
"You don't tell me what is sensible and isn't, corporal"  
  
  
Collins stares at the scene agape, cigarrete in hand meant to meet his lips, now forgotten halfway there. They don't even seem to notice him. If they do, they pay him no mind. Which is something that they would do, of course, because they visibly have more pressing matters at hand.  
  
  
He doesn't even have time to stand to guard, the Air Marshal stomps his way through the fog across the patch of grass without even acknowledging his presence, and Corporal Stephenson follows him suit, a troubled expression in his face that sends shivers down Collins' spine.  
  
  
The quietness settles just as quick as it was pierced. Except it's eerie now, somehow. Jack stares at them, their shadows disappear through the white and their footsteps stop being heard too, not long after.  
  
  
A fox is heard nearby.  
  
  
Now the silence makes him uncomfortable.  
  
  
"Inside, Collins"  
  
  
He turns his head and sees Farrier standing on the threshold, yellow-ish light coming from inside embracing his figure in the already darkened early evening. He manages to sound disenheartened and still very opposing, but it's the disenhearted part that Collins is troubled by.  
  
  
Sending babies to die. Equipment.  
  
  
He doesn't mention it. He takes a last drag from the cigarrete and steps on it. The Commander waits by the door, impassive with his usual poker face. Jack feels himself being stared down as he walks up the now seemingly never-ending stairs, his boots on the marble the only sound heard.  
  
  
He could've gone inside already, Collins thinks. He knows he's going to be obeyed, there's no need to stand there like a mother about to scold her child.  
  
  
"Inside" he repeats, his voice stopping Jack on his tracks. Like it did on the library.  
  
  
_Not now._  
  
  
"Unless of course, you _are_ trying to catch pneumonia, in which case I'll just let you be"  
  
  
"Was just gettin' some air, sir" he shrugs.  
  
  
Farrier waits a couple more seconds before stepping aside and letting him in, and Jack intends to scatter away immediately.  
  
  
"Shouldn't you be at the library?"  
  
  
Not that he _can_ scatter away, though.  
  
  
He tries not to panic and looks for a clever answer.  
  
  
He doesn't find one.  
  
  
"Sir?" he blurts out.  
  
  
Farrier closes the door and faces him again.  
  
  
"Shouldn't you be at the library?" he repeats, a bit more emphatic this time, and Jack's brain completely shuts down then, with Farrier staring at him and waiting for him to come clean.

 

Bloody Marley, it must've been.  
  
  
He feels a bit of a _deja vú_ , feels like they've been here before, with him wrecking his brain to answer something that won't get him in trouble but failing to, and the Wing Commander standing opposite him, all-knowingly and mocking.  
  
  
Yes, they've been here before.  
  
  
"I- I did- I should- I was there earlier" he stammers.  
  
  
_Well that's it then, just tell him you know he's sleeping with the nurse, he just wants to hear it from your own lips, for some reason.  
_  
  
"Studying" Farrier nods.  
  
  
Collins clenches his jaw.  
  
  
"Yes"  
  
  
"For the tests"  
  
  
_Wanker._  
  
  
" _Yes_ "  
  
  
"You have a problem?" Farrier frowns, crossing his hands behind his back and nodding rather unhappily at him.  
  
  
Jack knows he's sounding condescending and that maybe he shouldn't be clenching his teeth and staring at him, but he is beyond frustrated at this point, by him and his fucking piercing eyes and meaty lips and by the fucking lessons and by Marley's bloody naivety.  
  
  
"I asked you a que-"  
  
  
"No sir, haven't got a problem _sir_ "  
  
  
He's never seen Farrier lose his temper. He's heard of officers losing it, though, and if he wanted to punch him right now Collins couldn't do a thing. Him speaking up to a superior would surely get him out of here in a jiffy, maybe that's better than being kicked out for being an idiot. Something in the Commander's eyes tells him he's not going to strike him, though. There's no real reason to ruin his perfect nose-fix, not unless he had a very short temper. And Collins knows that's not the case. He could punch him on the nose and have him on the floor, he _could_. But he won't.  
  
  
"You look like you do" Farrier says, almost theatrically, and he takes a step towards him, just like in that one first encounter. "You look like you want to open your mouth and say something, Collins."  
  
  
Jack doesn't. Open his mouth, that is.  
  
  
He fights the impulse to take a step back when Farrier closes the gap between them and places a hand on his shoulder.  
  
  
"No?"  
  
  
Jack doesn't say anything, because he's not sure what Farrier wants to hear and because he's not sure his voice will come out either way.  
  
  
"If you _do_ open your mouth, there will be some trouble going on, hm? I'm going to be demoted, and she's going to be fired and probably sent to the front, now we don't want that to happen, do we?"  
  
  
Now, that's insulting. Why would Jack even _care_ to spill the beans out to get him demoted? He's not a fucking bastard that would send the lass away either because they're fucking.  
  
  
" _Do we?"_ Farrier's hand presses down on his shoulder and Collins makes a face.  
  
  
He really has no idea, does he?  
  
  
"No, sir. I don't _care_ , I was just trying to _read_ " Is what he answers, since the Commander is apparently quite worried that he's got no moral codes, or that he's just an awful person, for that matter. "Couldn't have known you were going to come in now could I?"  
  
  
Farrier takes a step back, Jack feels that he can breathe properly again.  
  
  
"Seems you were in a bit of a rush, maybe should've listened to the lass and checked first, _sir_."  
  
  
_But you couldn't keep it in your pants.  
  
_

"Could've been someone else in there. Was just me though, you're in luck." _  
_  
  
That is definitely more words than Commander Farrier was expecting from him, not to mention his attitude, and it's probably the first time Jack sees him do that with his tongue as well. He's upset.  
  
  
_Now_ there might be a punch coming.  
  
  
Or, he might shut him out and have him sleep outside.  
  
  
What happens is Farrier wraps one of his hands on his shirt and yanks him to the floor.  
  
  
"Give me twenty."  
  
  
Jack lets out a deep sigh and looks up at the Commander staring him down, arms now crossed over his chest. Now why should he be punished on something he's not responsible for? He's not the one going against the rule code by fucking an employee.  
  
  
All of this must be reflected on his face, because Farrier looks like he's about to burst.  
  
  
"Fifty."  
  
  
Jack lets out an inaudible laugh and turns to face the floor.  
  
  
"Eighty."  
  
  
Maybe not that inaudible a laugh, then.  
  
  
"One" Farrier starts, before Jack has even finished positioning himself. "Two, three" he sets the pace.  
  
  
It's not a slow pace.  
  
  
By twenty Jack is already regretting opening his mouth at all, but his pride is stronger than to admit that, to admit that he's sure his head shouldn't be hurting instead of his arms.  
  
  
"Thirty-six, thirty-seven, I'm in a rush, Collins. Thirty-eight, thirty-nine"  
  
  
_You had it coming Jack. Bless the heavens everyone's too engrossed in stupid games to be witnessing this, although you would deserve that as well, probably._  
  
  
"Forty-four, forty-five"  
  
  
_You'll learn to pick your fights._  
  
  
"Forty-seven, forty-eight"  
  
  
_And pick your men, most of all. Maybe someone that's not out of your league next time.  
_  
  
"Fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four, I haven't got all evening"  
  
  
_Someone who doesn't have the upper hand.  
_  
  
There's not much science to a push-up, no doubt, so there's no way he's doing it wrong. Farrier would tell him if he were, to straighten up and do it properly, surely.  
  
  
It's got to be the nose.  
  
  
"What's that?"  
  
  
"Can I stop now?" he mumbles out, unintelligibly. He doesn't want to live through another sleepless night because of the pain, or have to face nurse Jones again for what it's worth. That one dose should've done its job, he doesn't need any more.  
  
  
"Stand up" Farrier's says, unamused, voice bordering on boredom.  
  
  
But Collins can't. Can't speak, because if he speaks he can't breathe, can't move, because if he moves everything else moves.  
  
  
If only the Commander would just, leave him there to live down his misery.  
  
  
"Stand." Now that voice is anything but unamused. "Up."  
  
  
Still, the best Collins can do is sit up against the wall and close his eyes to fight down the dizziness.  
  
  
Farrier steps closer, and Jack is sure he's about to say something, insult him, tell him to pack his belongings and wait for a car that'll drive him to the train station, maybe tell him he's good for nothing or even ask him to finish up the eighty push-ups like a man. He doesn't say anything though, because there's blood coming out of his nose now.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! Let me know if you find any mistakes as well.  
> The more comments I get the more inspiration I get and that's a fact. Aka, doesn't take me as long to post continuation.  
> Love y'all! Thank you for reading (:


End file.
